The Foundling
by amomentintime3
Summary: The team investigates murders recreating a series of popular crime fiction novels. They fly to Seattle expecting to name the reclusive author their prime suspect but instead find a woman without a past who may or may not be their unsub. Casefic Reidcentrc
1. Chapter 1

Summary: The team investigates a string of murders recreating a series of popular crime fiction novels. They fly to Seattle expecting to name the reclusive author as their prime suspect. What they find instead is a woman without a past who may or may not be their unsub.

Rating - T

Author - amomentintime3

**_The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion._**

_Albert Einstein_

**The Foundling**

Reid juggles a coffee and his messenger bag as he scurries through the main isle of the BAU jet. He bumps into Emily as he passes, messenger bag falling to his elbow and coffee spilling through the small opening and onto his hands. He drops it down instinctively, waving his hands to cool the amber liquid. His bag follows next, thrown beside where he's about to sit. When he looks up again he notices how the others always appear so polished and ready and he's stuck fumbling through his pack, searching for a wrinkled napkin. JJ offers one from the side, encouraging smile out of place with the rest.

There's a sombre attitude in the jet; not that there was often anything but, at least on departing for a new case. But this was different. They were all tired; exhausted really. They'd just arrived back yesterday morning, hadn't even graced the leather chairs of the conference room this morning when the call had come. And if the seven am wake up call wasn't enough, the fact that they'd bypassed the conference room to collect details on the jet, or the fact that most had yet to complete their paperwork from the last case. If those weren't clues enough to the severity of their new direction, than the knitting together of Hotch's eyebrows would have been enough. You could always tell the severity of a case by the look on Hotch's face, and their leader's eyebrows were bunched so close together that Reid was convinced they might just cross.

The leader is rubbing his thumb over their latest case, a stack of folders that lay beside his leather briefcase. He fires the first across the main table as an introduction. "We're headed to Seattle," Hotch offers as Morgan flips the first folder. "Mother, father and daughter were all found in their beds, their throats had been slashed. The teen son..." Hotch continues and Morgan flips the photos on cue, "was found in the living room." Morgan tosses the boys photo on top of the rest. He had sandy brown hair and a well defined jaw bone. He was the kind of boy that could have been handsome in life. No one is handsome on a slab. "His wrist's were slashed."

"Murder-suicide?" Rossi asks.

Hotch points out two lines on the boy's wrist in contradiction. "There's ligature marks on both wrists.

"So the unsub subdued him first," Emily suggests "that seems personal."

"Not so fast," Hotch stops the building chatter with a hand and another set of photos. "The second case is a high school teacher who was shot in his home and then left in a classroom in the downtown core."

"What is the relationship between victims?" Rossi asks.

"None," Hotch says blankly and then flips again. "The third set of victims is an elderly couple. They were fatally drugged in their own home and then robbed."

"Relat..."

"None," Hotch snaps blankly and a couple others shift quickly in their seats.

"Are we sure these murders are related?" Morgan asks.

"Seattle traditionally has one of the lowest murder rates per capita when compared with other large urban centers," Reid prompts automatically.

"And sometimes things just change," Morgan points out with a deeper look at the files. "These aren't even related in time. The family murder is nearly six months old, and these two sets are on the same weekend."

"The timeline is problematic but these crimes are related," Hotch assures them. It's enough to quiet the group long enough for the captain to progress to the last set of photographs. "Three adults women strangled in the same hotel and another," he flips the page, "who jumped off of her luxury townhouse."

"Eleven bodies?" Rossi asks, "And we're only being called in now?"

"What do you see when you look at the files?" Hotch reflects.

"Nothing," Emily notes. "There is no relationship between victims, commonality in method or signature."

"There was no reason to suspect that it was the work of a serial killer."

"These cases read like five very independent crimes," Rossi agrees with a few more flips. Reid stopped paying much more than cursory attention by the second case. That's when the nagging feeling had started, the wave of deja vu. The others debated but Reid reflips the last few pages, trying to capture the missing words.

"Are we sure they are connected?" Morgan asks again but it isn't more than a mumble in the background. Reid can feel his eyes pull together in deep thought.

"They are. They're all based on..."

"Novels," Reid spits out as the realization dawns, hand slapping the table with the force of his epiphany. When the glimmer passes; Then Reid notices the rest of his team. There's a lingering amusement on them all, even Hotch's customary neutrality threatened with a slight tugging. It's barely distinguishable but it's enough for Reid to clear his throat and silently move the offending hand beneath the table.

"A series of popular crime novels by the author Sam Thomson to be exact." Hotch supplies with a quick look at his notes. "He's published ten novels in as many years, these," he spreads the photos out across the table, "are his first, second fourth and third respectively."

"So it's snuff fiction."

"Not really," Reid says. "The author is more concerned with the killer's psychological state than the actual aspects of the crime. The books are more internalized, more character studies than graphic literature. Take the first novel for example. It's a family annihilation plot but there can't be more than twenty to forty pages dedicated to the murders themselves. The entire story is written from the perspective of the ten boy. What leads him to murder his family, and the guilt he feels after and who it eventually leads to him to kill himself. Or the third. It's considered the weakest of the author's novels because he couldn't quite take on the perspective of the female but, that aside, it's a fascinating look at obsession. You have a wife who finds out her husband is having an affair and is consumed by jealously. She kills each of his mistresses but in the process of doing, and of studying and researching them, the wife becomes a bit more like them until in the end, she loses herself and sees herself as just another mistress like the others. I mean each novel is so..." He continues with customary enthusiasm but it dies when he looks up and sees five other faces staring back at him.

"You've read these novels?" Emily asks in shock. It's reflected around the table.

"Don't you get enough in your day job?" Morgan adds to the nodding of several other heads.

"They're very well written," Reid mumbles before lapsing into silence.

"What do we know about these types of suspects?" Hotch offers once the party recovers themselves

"People who do mimic crimes seen in the media have in most cases prior criminal records, prior severe mental health problems or histories of violence." Rossi points out.

"Did you get that Garcia?" Hotch asks to the screen in the middle.

"Researching possible mental scumbags as we speak."

"They're like copycats," Emily adds. "Less intelligent, less confident, reliant on an already established script."

"They tend to be more impulsive," Morgan says.

"And yet this unsub is none of those things," Hotch reveals as he sits back into his chair. "He's organized enough not to leave a shred of physical evidence behind."

"And patient enough to wait for the right victim," Morgan adds.

"Which would require both planning and restraint," Rossi finishes the realization.

"He's accelerated his timeline as well. In the novels these crimes are carried out over weeks," Reid explains, "years in the case of the last but this unsub has consolidated things into a single night."

"Without taking artistic liberties," Prentiss points out. "The husband of the seventh victim was apparently having affairs with all these women."

"It couldn't have been an easy task to find those sorts of similarities," Morgan says.

"It could explain the lapse between kills," Rossi suggests with a final look at the snapshots. "The irregular timeline could be cause by the need to research...to plan."

"And yet he does take artistic liberties...meaningless ones," Reid points out. "He takes the time to match backgrounds, physical characteristics and even personality traits."

"But he plays with location," Rossi realizes, pulling the photos of the three brunettes forward. "He dumped them in hotel rooms rather than in their own homes."

"Perhaps he doesn't know where they live," Emily offers.

"Not possible," Hotch counters. "Not with the amount of research he must have gathered."

"Perhaps he's trying to recreate the feel of the novel," Reid suggests, scanning his memory for the exact details. "There was an opulence to the settings in that novel. Perhaps the real lives didn't match up." Reid puts a hand to his mouth as he contemplates, pushing back a few photos as he goes. It's silent as he does, contemplation playing out in his teammates. "No," Reid dismisses his own supposition before any of the others, drawing all eyes his way. "The third novel," he pulls a drawing of a smiling blonde man to the forefront. "The teacher worked at an inner city school. This man," he taps the photo contemplatively, "he worked at a run down school only two blocks from his apartment. The best security it had was a set of deadbolts and a neighbourhood crime watch. He's killed at his apartment..."

"But he doesn't dump him there." Emily says.

"He transports the body across town into a new state-of-the-art facility."

"With an alarm system and video surveillance," Emily finished the realization.

"The hotels...the school," Reid continues.

"They're all high risk locations," Morgan shakes his head. "The unsub is arrogant. He thinks he can't be caught."

"Well we're going to need to catch him and fast." Hotch flips another page in his notes. "the next novel is about a failed suicide pact and the one after that..."

"It's about a long-range serial killer who shoots twenty-four people in a public area," Reid explains.

"We have to consider something else," Morgan interjects from the side, waits a moment before putting the theory forward. "That the author himself might be making fantasy reality."

"That's why Reid and I will be interviewing him provided the publishing company coughs up and address."

"Provided?" Emily shakes her head.

"It took three phone calls and the threat of a warrant before the publishing company admitted that the author lived in Seattle."

"It's not surprising," Reid jumps in. "The author is a known recluse. He has never done a television or radio interview." He adds as Hotch's cell phone dings loudly through the still space. "It's sparked all sorts of conjecture about who it can be. One of the most popular theories is that he's an inmate in a maximum security prison."

"I hate to disappoint," Hotch interjects as he flips his cell closed. "But the publishing company finally came through with an address and it's a boring street one."

"Are they sending officers there now?"

"We're landing in thirty," Hotch confirms with a look at his watch. "We're going to let us take the lead in questioning. Emily and Morgan, I want you to survey the latest crime scene and Jennifer, you're going to go with Rossi to interview the publisher. We'll try to get a lead on any crazed fans."

_A/N - just an idea that's been languishing on my hard drive for awhile. Review if you'd like me to continue._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N - Thanks for the lovely reviews. They really make my day as I try out CM. I should have mentioned this is post-Revelations in terms of canon._

**The Foundling**

_**Chapter Two**_

Morgan kneels by the nearest blood stain. There are two main areas of blood, a splatter across the bed, and a larger puddle beneath it where the girl had fallen. The three scenes were nearly identical, attractive young woman shot in a hotel room. A silencer had been used and no prints were found by the crime scene unit. There was a set of untouched meals in each of the three rooms, fish in the first, steak and pork in the others. A bottle of unopened wine encased in a silver bucket. Emily flips through photographs as Morgan walks the room silently, trying to get a feel for the killer's actions.

There was little commonalities between the three woman. They could all be considered attractive but the first was a petite Asian, the second a tall Caucasian with long flowing brown hair. The final victim was a freckled redhead. Though, if the killer was more concerned with matching novels than victimology wouldn't help much.

"Somethings bothering you," Morgan cuts through her thoughts.

"Nothing's bothering you?" Emily shots back on instinct. This was the third murder scene they'd seen in the last two hours. It'd affect anyone. When Morgan doesn't respond she thinks harder. "Do you know how difficult this must have been to orchestrate?" Morgan nods his head. "I mean three different woman, on the same night, in the same hotel. He had to first discover a man who was having affairs with three separate woman. Then he had to romance all three, gain their trust, and then plan an evening together on the same night. How likely is it that they'd all be free? Or that he could progress from one to another without being covered in blood. Not to mention the forth victim."

"It's nearly impossible."

"And the husband," Emily produces a photo from the file. "He's having affairs with all three women simultaneously? I mean he's wealthy but," Emily flips the photograph for Morgan to see. "He's hardly Brad Pitt."

"Some women are attracted to power."

"I don't see it."

"Some women like money."

"And some women are bought by money," Emily raises her tone in realization.

"You think they were working girls?"

"Fancy lingerie, hotel rooms booked in their names."

"I'll call Garcia," Morgan offers flipping his phone open.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Sam Thomson lives in a modern building decorated with miles of glass. The wall of windows dissolving into the blue water and the bluer sky beyond. Reid wasn't one to covet material goods, but even he took a look around the apartment lobby with something akin to envy. His own apartment, a three story walk up with a view of cement and grass, couldn't quite compare. Reid liked his building. It had charm but this building had something else entirely. Hotch talked to the main security guard but Reid wandered aimlessly over to the wall of glass. The afternoon sun seemed brighter reflected against the inner harbour and the carved marble floors. It bordered on extravagant, the security ostentatious. The agents had needed to flash their badges twice before being granted entrance; once at the doorman and again at the front desk. Perhaps it was worth it for the view. The sun was near the crest of the sky, and the dotting of boats and two single-man kayaks perfected the vision. Statistically Reid knew that Seattle garnered more days of rain than nearly every other urban centre, but that didn't affect his enjoyment.

Reid only turned around when he heard another voice added to Hotch's. It's the appearance of a uniformed officer; a tall and willowy woman with auburn hair and a far from pleased demeanour. "You must be from the BAU," she offers with a hand.

"Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," Hotch offers as he takes it, a quick shake that ends with him nodding towards the younger. "This is Dr. Reid."

"Constable Martin," she directs quickly, waving them immediately towards the elevators. Reid adjusts his book bag and finds his place beside the two.

"High security," Hotch comments as the metal doors slip closed.

"One of the most expensive buildings in the city," the officer says.

"1812," Reid provides once the three reach the eighteenth floor, before Hotch can check his notes. The halls are branded in carpet, beige wool that is thick enough to press back upward against their steps. Their destination is on the Northwestern side; facing outward into the harbour and surrounding mountains.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

The offices of HQ Publishing are barely two blocks further North. The building does little to impress from the outside, a simple brick and mortar construction that bleeds unimpressively into the tapestry of the street. Rossi and Jennifer are wordlessly directed to the fourth floor. The main offices of HG are centred in New York and the placement reflects this. The Western offices occupy only three floors but it hardly seems a smaller subsidiary. A waft of oak infuses the air as they enter the reception area, pristine historical furniture giving the area an opulence and bridging a separation with initial impressions. The secretary stands before they even reach the main desk, directing them down a long hallway before they can even make introductions. The quick movements of her knee-length pencil skirt shows they were expected.

"Mr. Quinn will be with you shortly," She offers without a smile as they reach the main office. She waves at one of the overstuffed sofas and departs, shutting the door behind. Rossi lifts an eyebrow at the display, exchanging a look with JJ as she takes a seat. He doesn't. He shifts from foot to foot a moment and then makes an quick perusal of the room, feet following his eyes. It's a large office, about forty feet across with acceptable views of the harbour. It's likely the building enjoyed better views in the past, but two larger buildings to the South obscure a portion of the waterfront.

JJ shifts on the leather sofa, the soft rustling of her skirt distracting the older officer a moment. He turns away from the window and begins a deeper study of the interior. The walls are lined in bookshelves, each filled with hardcover novels. They're divided into genre and then divided again by author. In another setting Rossi might have considered it overly organized but it fit the backdrop and purpose of the room. The furniture is functional; one expansive desk covering an entire corner of the room with polished silver name plate dictating outward. There are a collection of matching pens, each lined beside the other. It's almost be too neat except for the overflowing in-box balancing on one corner.

Rossi checks his watch indifferently before focusing his attention upward again. He assumed they'd be waiting. At least they had the comfort of an office in a style that suited Rossi; the blend of cigar smoke and wood polish comforting to the older man. He ran a hand casually down a gilded picture frame. There was an aged map within, one of several that decorated the room. This one appeared to be an early eighteen century rendering of the area, based on the yellowing in the corners of the print, and the minor inaccuracies. It's intriguing enough for Rossi to ignore the opening of the door.

"My son," An older voice offers as Rossi catalogues the historical mistakes. "He collects them; likes to imagines himself a amateur cartographer."

"It's a beautiful piece," Rossi offers as he turns to face the other man. Jennifer starts to rise from the sofa but the older man indicates for her to sit again. He's about ten years older than Rossi, a circular balding pattern and deep lines beneath his eyes showing each month more.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," the man offers with a hand. He shakes Rossi's hand first, the firm shake of a seasoned businessman. "Harold Quinn, head of HQ Publishing."

"Thank you for meeting with us," Jennifer delves into the pleasantries. Taking her own handshake, she quickly dispenses with the necessary introductions.

"It's no problem at all. Be assured that we will help you in any way we can."

"Now," Rossi interjects deliberately. JJ throws him a warning look but it falls off the older man. "Now you're willing to help."

Harold's face turns far less friendly at the implication. He leans back against the desk before he speaks further. "You must understand that If we thought that the author could be involved in any way we would have handed them over. But it's an impossibility."

"You deduced this yourself?" Rossi asks. "Without involving the police."

"It is an impossibility," a fourth voice enters from behind the door. He's a tall man, broad across the shoulders and about forty years younger than Harold. The matching brown hair and green eyes show the resemblance.

"My son Gavin."

"We needed to balance the author's need for privacy with the needs of the public," Gavin explains. "My father is truthful. We will cooperate in any way necessary," He says with a wave of his hand. There's a stack of papers in his hand and they flutter as he moves. "As requested by the police, I've compiled a list of all of Sam's, well, more _eclectic_ fans but I've got to warn you. She's got a lot of fanatical followers."

JJ takes the list from his, word only registering as she scans the list. She passes it to Rossi with the thought. "She?"

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

The door was open by a girl that looked barely beyond the teen years, blaring music from behind enough to confirm the supposition. It was loud enough to make Reid wince but he did his best to ignore the auditory assault. He instantly pegged her as the author's daughter and recalculated the man's age to mid-fifties as he looked beyond the door, eyes scanning the room on instinct. The opulence of the building was reflected in the apartment, marble fireplace offset by thick wood flooring evident throughout. It had been stained to a dark black, an unusual choice but it reflected well with the white furnishings. The entire suite was done in neutral shades, except for the rich contemporary paintings that added sharp colour to an otherwise ordinary space. That wasn't what interested the young doctor. He was studying the orderliness of the space, the fact that everything had been thoroughly cleaned, There wasn't a crocked picture or a speck of dirt in the living area despite the predominance of white. The main living area was lined in thick bookcases, each filled with books. There were classics offset by books of poetry, architecture, music and fashion. It wasn't surprising considering the man's profession except for the orderliness. Every book had been returned to its exact place, sections between genres evenly spaced.

Hotcher offers his hand but Reid only listens to the introductions enough to nod his head on cue. He'd begun his profiling the instant the door opened, eyes narrowing in thought. The apartment didn't look like an apartment owned by a fifty year old. The decorations were too modern. It's likely the daughter could have selected the art but that didn't explain the modern furnishings. And it was small. Reid inches a little to the left, scouring the hallway to the right and counting the doors beyond. As he inched forward a large Doberman lifted his head from beside the fireplace, walking protectively across the small space to stand beside the girl.

Reid decided she wasn't a girl. There was only one bedroom to the apartment. He recast her as a wife, taking the time to recalculate her age. She was dressed in a white silk shirt, short tan shorts too fine a material and stye for a teenager. She was thin enough to be one, possessing a waifish figure that didn't offer much in the way of womanly curves. Her complexion was soft but he could detect the smallest lines around her eyes. He guesses thirty and frowns instinctively. That leaves the age of the author much more murky. She could have started a younger fan, or they might be equals in age. He was leaning more towards fan, due in part to her hair. It was mostly chestnut brown, but the blue streaks painted across the front blended well with the overly drawn black eyes. She looked impressionable.

He was about to consider further when his feet are nearly knocked from underneath him. Reid grabs at the door frame before he can fall over, looks down to see the large black animal staring back up, teeth bared. "Oh my god," the woman mumbles with a yank at the dog collar. She barely moves the animal; vague curse sounding under her lips before she pulls again, harder than the first time. Her arm strains under the force but the dog acquiesces, tottering to the far side of the room. Her hair falls downward, shock of blue covering her pale face until she pushes it back again, puff of air parting the thickly cut bangs. "It's not my dog," she promises as she looks straight up again. She has blue eyes. Not that it's significant. They're nice blue eyes. Not astonishingly so. Just a simple blue. Or a deep blue. Like the water he'd spied downstairs.

"We're looking for Sam Thomson," Hotch interrupts and the eyes are gone. Reid stands up straight again, turning his eyes back into the open space. They land on the dog at the far side.

"That would be me. Though you may call me Samantha Davis," she offers with a tentative look at all three.


End file.
